


Christmas Tree Tyranny

by Nelsynoo



Series: Anwen and Cullen NGO AU [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anwen takes Christmas VERY SERIOUSLY, Christmas, Cullen is right, Cullen thinks he can use kissing to distract from shenanigans, F/M, Fluff, Kissing, Modern AU, NGO AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5324147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelsynoo/pseuds/Nelsynoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anwen Trevelyan is decorating her Christmas tree and Cullen is amused to learn that she takes Christmas <i>very seriously</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Tree Tyranny

The first thing he notices is the smell. The air is sweet, rich with cinnamon and the tang of orange, and he inhales deeply as he steps out of the cold and into Anwen’s flat.

The second thing he notices is the music. Dean Martin’s smoky baritone drifts lazily from the sitting room, buoyed by the jazzy syncopated rhythm of a brass band. Anwen is singing along, her delicate soprano voice contrasting starkly with Dean’s heady timbre. He immediately recognises the song; she’s been playing the same festive playlist on repeat for days now and Cullen is immensely impressed that he is yet to smash her laptop against the floorboards.

He peels away his many layers, soaked through from a sudden but formidable downpour, and drapes them over the radiator in the hallway. Poking his head around the doorway into the sitting room, a grin spreads across his face at the sight of Anwen dancing carelessly around the room. She hasn’t heard him return home (and that doesn’t surprise him – her music is turned up so loud), and she flails and shimmies with the enthusiastic inelegance of someone who thinks they are alone.

The sitting room is a mess, cardboard boxes bursting with ribbons and baubles crowding every available surface. Anwen has chosen an ambitiously grand tree for her modest London flat and she has had to cram her furniture closer together to make enough space for the conifer’s wide, bushy branches. He’s not entirely sure how she intends for them to reach the sofa without developing the acrobatic talents of an Olympic gymnast. The room is so cramped, and Anwen’s dancing so enthusiastic, that Cullen is utterly astounded that she is yet to cause herself serious bodily harm.

Occasionally she stops, dipping flamboyantly to pluck a decoration from a box before placing it carefully upon the tree. She steps back to survey her handiwork after every additional ornament, head scanning deliberately up each of the tree’s tiers. With a thoughtful hum and a satisfied nod of her head, she resumes her frantic swaying and spinning.

Suddenly she catches sight of Cullen and comes to an abrupt standstill, a fierce blush blooming across her cheeks.

“Enjoying yourself?” he drawls smugly, leaning against the doorframe with a crooked, teasing smirk.

Her blush is short-lived – Anwen is not one to feel embarrassed – and her lips curl into a playful smirk to mirror his own. “Well I was until you uninterrupted!” she cries indignantly, crossing her arms and scowling theatrically in mock annoyance.

He steps into the room and wraps his arms around her, pressing a tender kiss to where her forehead is creased from her feigned frowning.

“And here I was, come to offer my assistance,” he murmurs against her skin, delighting in the little shiver he feels roll along her spine as he speaks.

She pushes him away, swats him playfully on the shoulder. “Pfft – I don’t need your help,” she declares haughtily, “you’ll probably do it wrong anyway.”

“ _Do it wrong_? It’s a Christmas tree! You can’t do it wrong!”

“You absolute amateur! _Of course_ you can do it wrong!” she chastises with such genuine dismay that Cullen can’t tell whether she’s teasing anymore. “The ribbons have to be spaced evenly across the tree, and the decorations have to be distributed according to genre. Everything has to be carefully balanced – no gaps! – but the whole thing has to look natural, like you weren’t really trying.”

Cullen laughs, loud and bubbling, until he notes her stricken expression and comes to the belated realisation that Anwen isn’t joking. He arches a confused eyebrow; surely she doesn’t _genuinely_ decorate her tree with the level of meticulous thought usually reserved for space missions? But Anwen is regarding him with sharp eyes, her lips drawn into a thin line, and Cullen is suddenly reminded of his mother’s favourite reprimand. _I’m not angry with you, just disappointed_.

In retrospect, Cullen should have seen this coming. Anwen is in all things conscientious and precise. She plans dates like a general plans a battle: carrying out extensive reconnaissance and making contingencies for every eventuality. She prepares her outfits in advance, checking multiple forecasts to ensure that her attire is weather-appropriate. Her DVD collection is organised according to genre and then colour-coordinated. She is never, _ever_ late.

He chuckles good-naturedly, brushes the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip to release some of the tension held in her scowl. “You never fail to astound me,” he says, and he can tell from the way her brows furrow that she’s not sure whether it’s a compliment or not. “I’m sure the tree will be perfect.” 

Her face softens then, warmth returning to her eyes and the corners of her mouth curling upward.

He leans forward, nuzzles his nose against hers before gently pressing his mouth to hers. He’s soft at first, his lips brushing tentatively against the curve of her smile. But when she grazes her teeth against his bottom lip, he can’t help but give a pleased little groan, lips parting to deepen the kiss. One of his hands comes to rest between her shoulder blades, pulling her body flush along his own, and her fists ball in the front of his festive knitwear. His other hand skims up her arm, caressing the side of her neck before reaching out behind her.

Distracted by the kiss, Anwen doesn’t notice Cullen hooking a gold and red striped bauble with his fingertip. He carefully liberates it from the tree, moving it along and depositing it on the adjacent branch.

He gives her shoulders a small squeeze as he pulls away. “Tea?” he asks, briefly pressing his lips to her forehead. She responds with a vigourous nod.

Returning to the sitting room barely five minutes later, Cullen finds Anwen staring at the tree with a perplexed glower and crossed arms. Her features are pinched in mild distress, one finger tapping relentlessly against her forearm. When she turns to him to accept his proffered tea and sees his smug smirk, she narrows her eyes and seethes between gritted teeth: “ _what did you do_?!”

**Author's Note:**

> For more writing, drabbles, artwork and general rambling, please check out my [tumblr](http://nelsynoo.tumblr.com/).


End file.
